


There's So Much You Have To Go Through

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“My life as a father ended twenty-five years ago,” he says curtly, hoping this will end the subject. “I’m a Captain now. My first priority is the Musketeers and <i>if</i>,” (if), “this is the path that leads me to my son, then I’ll take it as it comes.”</i> </p><p>AU in which Treville is Porthos' father and not Belgard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After twenty-five years of searching, Treville has long given up on the hope of ever finding what he’s been after. Twenty-five years and every time he’d thought he’d found something, it had only led to yet another dead end. It’s left him hollowed out, cynical, and worst of all, it’s left him thinking that the mistake wrought against him so very long ago is going to be a permanent one.

That the woman who was to be his wife and his son are forever lost. 

He’s distracted by these constant thoughts when he accidentally jabs himself with his _main gauche_ , having been opening yet another letter from the King’s Council, eager for him to recruit more men to fill the empty spots in the Musketeers. De Foix had brought several with him to face Spain, but they had been pressed into a long assignment. He swears as he shakes out his handkerchief to blot away the blood, watching the red spread when the knock is heard at the door.

“Come in,” he summons.

De Foix pokes his head in, waving a letter in hand. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see.”

“Is this like any of the other times?” he asks with a sigh, trying to ward away the headache burgeoning at his temples. For twenty-five years, De Foix has been a good friend, trying to undo the wrongs of Belgard. For twenty-five years, De Foix has been his best ally as he searches for the son and near-wife that he’d lost. Belgard had taken it upon himself to _rid_ Treville of a problem he had never admitted to having. “I’m not in the mood for more dead ends.”

Then, the bastard had gone and greedily found himself dead in an alleyway, mugged while carting away too much gold as he sought to increase his riches. With him, the information of where Marie and Porthos were had bled away.

“I promise, you’ll be interested in this,” De Foix assures, tapping the letter. “Go on, open it.”

Treville opens the letter cautiously, always wary of what that smile on De Foix’s face means. “André, I swear, if this is another goose chase…” And yet, he pauses as he reads the very first line of the letter from an army commander who speaks of two talented soldiers within his regiment that would be best suited to the Musketeers. The first, a talented sniper with charm and wit to spare, by the name of Aramis who happened upon them on his way to Paris to join the Musketeers, and the second – a brute of a soldier who held the warmest laugh and a stubborn heart, by name of Porthos.

Treville raises his head, too shocked to say a thing.

And De Foix is still smirking at him with that frustratingly unnerving smile of his that he always wears when he’s unbearably right about something.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Only one way to truly find out,” De Foix replies. “We do have vacancies to fill. We’ll have to assess their skills, but a man of great strength and one of excellent aim wouldn’t go amiss. I know I’d be more than happy to take the both of them on my missions.” 

Treville scans the letter again for more details. Each time it speaks of Porthos, there is the edge of something distasteful within the words and Treville bristles at the thought of this potential son of his being mistreated by those who do not properly understand that the kindest hearts and the best souls are often beneath the skin of those society despises.

“Nothing of his mother,” he realizes, heart sinking. He’d known it to be a desperate reach, but some part of him has long hoped that they would _both_ be alive.

“Do you take your mother with you on your battle campaigns?”

“Her hip would struggle on the battlefield,” Treville wryly replies. He takes in a deep, steadying breath and is helped along by De Foix’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing the once to reassure him. “If it is him, I’ll have to ensure I don’t give him a place merely on emotion.” _If_ , he keeps saying, _if_ , he keeps hoping. Twenty-five years of hope and need has left him hollowed out, so much so that even this glimmer of hope doesn’t seem possibly real.

He folds the letter cautiously and tucks it in the pocket closest to his heart. 

“We’ll visit them next week, after visiting Provins and then Blois. There’s many potential Musketeers to be seen, not only those who may or may not be my son,” Treville says evenly, and ignores the somewhat scolding look he knows he’s receiving right at this very moment. 

“Jean,” he chides, clucking his tongue.

“My life as a father ended twenty-five years ago,” he says curtly, hoping this will end the subject. “I’m a Captain now. My first priority is the Musketeers and _if_ ,” (if), “this is the path that leads me to my son, then I’ll take it as it comes.”

De Foix gives him one last warming smile before leaving him to his privacy, again. The work has fallen away from his attention, though. He can no longer pay attention to the work at hand, the King’s orders, or the need to recruit another six men to his Musketeers, lest his ranks grow too low to properly suit the King’s needs. His mind has drifted into a spiral that leads straight to the past.

Those happy days seem so far, now. He thinks of Marie and how unexpectedly he had found his affections laid bare for her, sneaking away moments in Belgard’s hallways first to simply talk, then to while away longer moments, until they were like children holding hands in dark corners and trading kisses in wine cellars while no one was the wiser. He should have been smarter and coaxed her to leave Belgard’s house, but he’d been young and filled with lust and, more importantly, love. 

Soon, those kisses had turned into hours spent hidden away in her room. He learned every part of her body and mind, kissing up and down the planes of her body while she tangled her long fingers in his hair and smiled at him with that impossibly large, fond smile that seemed to carry all the warmth in the world.

He still remembers the day she had come to him, wringing her hands together and explaining that she was pregnant. He can still remember the joy that had overwhelmed him and how he’d been so happy, so incandescently, perfectly happy to think that they would have a family soon and be able to be together.

How short-sighted and stupid he’d been.

How blind to Belgard’s sinister side he’d allowed himself to be.

And as a result, he’s been punished by losing Marie and Porthos both, having only spent two and a half years with them, each moment of that time fraught with the knowledge that no one approved and there was constant danger. Treville had never thought, though, that the worst threat of all would come from someone who purported to be his best friend.

“I’ll take care of things,” Belgard had said, when they were deep in the wine. He’d always acted as if he knew what was best for Treville and to this day, he hates himself for not understand the insidious meaning behind those words. “Don’t worry. When you wake up, you’ll have your life back.” 

As if he could never understand loving someone that society dismissed; as if he thought a son like Porthos ought to be thrown in the gutter rather than cherished and forever loved.

Treville catches himself in these dark thoughts and pries himself away from them as best as he can, struggling to tear himself out of the past before the memories grow too dim and dark. There are some days he can rarely bear to relive and that memory is on the precipice before him. So, instead of wandering towards it, he veers away and hauls out the map, beginning to plot their route to Provins to see the first of the recruits that will be offered up to them.

The road would take days, but it would give Treville a chance to process this news and allow himself to calm his mind for the inevitable moment they reached this Porthos, who bore his son’s name and hopefully something of Treville in him. Perhaps it’s just a long shot in the dark, but Treville has spent twenty-five years grasping at every shadow he can find.

He can’t see himself stopping anytime soon.

“Ready?” De Foix asks in the morning, when the maps are drawn and the carts are loaded up.

There are Musketeers to be found and a job to be done. Treville nods as he sets his hat upon his head, prepared to take on the day. “Ready,” he promises, knowing that no matter the outcome, their duty will be done.

*

“Mail!” calls the boy, tossing letters this way and that at the small regiment stationed just outside Chartres. Aramis whistles and coaxes the boy to come closer, presenting him with a livre for his troubles when he hands over a letter that clearly doesn’t belong to Aramis. Porthos gives him a chiding look, even though thievery is his history by experience. 

Aramis glances up innocently. “What?”

“I’ve told you it’s not kind to intercept mail,” Porthos chides from where he’s working at sharpening his blade and Aramis’ both. “You’re going to get us both hanged for that one day.”

“Add it to the list,” Aramis blithely replies.

Of all the items on it, Aramis’ favourite task that will likely get them hanged happens behind closed doors and is the most widely spread rumour of their particular battalion, but both Porthos and Aramis are careful and their compatriots in battle are too loyal to ever tell tall tales. The other items that enumerate the list involve Porthos’ sticky fingers, tendency to gamble, Aramis’ too-easy charm with women (and the occasional man), and the both of their tendency to pick battles where they shouldn’t.

By Aramis’ count, they ought to have both been hanged at least twenty-seven times over by now. 

Porthos waited patiently for Aramis to read the letter, which appeared to be one from the Musketeers (even more of a reason to hang them, what with their apparent new crime of intercepting the King’s mail). “What’s it say?”

“It says that our illustrious Captain did write to Treville about our skills and that the man is pleased to come visit and assess whether we are worthy of the great Musketeer regiment,” Aramis announces with a flourish, smacking the page with victory. “I told you, Porthos. You see? No more gruel and slop in the fields. No more dust in every crevice of our clothes and shoddy beds with rocks under them. We’re going to be Musketeers.”

“You might be one,” Porthos replies, smiling ruefully. “No one else has wanted to take me on.”

“Ah, well, Treville will have to be content to take the both of us, as I don’t go without you,” Aramis replies cannily. It’s the same argument he’s used every time someone has tried to poach Aramis into their ranks to earn his sharp-sighted skills. Aramis refuses to go without Porthos and the groups that have visited prior haven’t been able to see past Porthos’ scars, skin, and history to be willing to take him on.

Porthos gives Aramis a sharp look. “You should really go with the next person who offers you a position.”

“Without you?” Aramis tuts. “Life is boring without you, Porthos,” he reminds him, tipping his head to the side. “And who would warm my bed if you weren’t there? I’d have to begin my quest for a kind-hearted, large-massed Jupiter-like beauty all over again and you know I haven’t got the patience for that.”

“Your silver tongue will do us in one day,” Porthos exhales the words with a fond laugh.

“Add it to the hanging list,” he says, doing his best to carefully reseal the letter, whistling to bring the boy back. Once the wax is formed again with the aid of a new candle, the letter is whisked off to their Captain as if it had never been interrupted. “We have three days, Porthos,” Aramis announces, standing and settling his hat upon his head as he stands tall and proud. “We’d best shine everything we can, if we’re to impress the King’s men.”

While Porthos is of the opinion that his clothes are fine as they are, he still allows Aramis to subject them to a rigorous routine that involves shining, pressing, and tending to the leather and tears as carefully as possible. Aramis takes care of all the stitching as he’s the one with steadier hands of the two of them, while Porthos ensures their clothes gleam from the rub of a cloth.

By the time three days have passed, they both look like they belong to a prestigious regiment and not the dusty battalion they’re joined to.

“Don’t embarrass us, now,” their Captain warns them when Treville’s envoy first peeks over the hill on the horizon. “It’d be nice to be able to say we turned out a few Musketeers.”

“I suspect it will be just as good to be one,” Aramis remarks, adjusting his hat to blot out the sun’s rays as he squints to get a good look at the carriage and the man it carries. He gives up and yanks Porthos’ spyglass from his belt, which causes a great deal of consternation given that Porthos nearly falls into Aramis for the sudden tug. He peers through it to watch Treville escorted out of the carriage, grinning widely. “He looks noble of bearing, with enough scars to make him a fine soldier.”

Something in Aramis’ face falters and he glances back to Porthos for just a brief moment before he shakes his head, as if to dismiss a notion.

“What?” Porthos asks suspiciously.

“Trick of the light,” Aramis assures, going back to looking. “He’s got a terribly fine sword.” He’s practically brimming with glee and Porthos is grateful when Treville and his group get close enough, because if Aramis doesn’t get to shoot something soon, he can only imagine the damage that will occur. 

Porthos gives their Captain a nod of his head to tell him that Aramis ought to go first, but given the way the Captain rolls his eyes and nods, it looks as if he’s already noticed the man’s overexcited anticipation of the whole affair.

“Captain Treville, welcome to our regiment,” Captain Lavoisier says, seating the party in a small box they’ve constructed just for the events. “We’ve several fine men amongst our ranks, but only two willing to turn traitor to me.” He smiles at the both of them to show there is fondness yet in his voice, the scar on the corner of his lips flickering in the pale light as he does. “This is Aramis, our finest shot,” he says, gesturing to him.

“Captain,” Aramis greets him with a bow of his head. “We’ve heard many fine things of the Musketeers.”

“You’ve filled their heads with dreams,” Lavoisier says ruefully, turning towards Porthos. “And this is Porthos, both strong of heart and head, but also quick and clever. Scouting missions are best given to him,” he says.

“Captain,” Porthos says with respect, bowing to Treville. 

When he rights himself vertically, he notices that Treville is staring at him in an odd way, but Porthos is used to being looked at in so many ways, all the kind that say that he’s different than the rest. It only makes him hold his chin higher, out of the sheer stubbornness that he’s learned out of the Court. No one is allowed to make him feel worthless, especially not when he knows he’s worth so very much more than that.

“Very good,” Treville finally speaks. “Let’s see it.”

“Gentlemen,” Lavoisier says, stepping back to allow them their field.

Porthos moves back as well while the boys set up Aramis’ targets for him. Targets are set up, but fruits are also placed atop tents, pieces of furniture, and the other odd miscellany that they carry around with them. While they do this, Aramis devotedly prepares his weapon carefully, readying three muskets and two pistols.

“Is he very good?” 

Porthos cranes his neck to the man who’s asked him the question – De Foix, he thinks, one of Treville’s aides and his strategy man. “Aramis?” Porthos replies, turning back to stare at him with a look filled with fondness and affection, one that only Aramis will ever see. “He’s the best.”

Aramis goes to work proving this by shooting every single target on the first try, leaving no doubt that he really is the best shot this side of Paris.

Porthos restrains himself from heading straight to Aramis’ side and picking him up with joy, but only barely and mostly because he’s busy wrapping his hands up for his turn. While he can’t really prove his effectiveness in the field (and he’d rather not show off his quick fingers), Porthos is more than capable of showing off his brute strength.

Poor Maurin has drawn the short straw and stands opposite Porthos now on the field when it comes his turn. Porthos mouths his apology before he clasps on his equipment, cracking his neck back and forth as he tries hard not to think about the fact that this might be his only chance to get to Paris and become a Musketeer.

Instead of letting the fear consume him, he lets it fuel him. There won’t be any failure here because Porthos knows his worth.

By the end, poor Maurin is lying on a hay bale, probably seeing birds. Aramis is at his side, chattering excitedly about how well both their shows were received, and even Lavoisier looks pleased.

“Gentlemen,” Treville remarks, standing and looking between the both of them. “Thank you for your time. I’d like to extend the offer for Porthos to come with us to Paris, if you’d like. You can join the Musketeers. You can join us.”

Porthos frowns, glancing sideways as he waits for the second part of that sentence. “And Aramis?”

“We’ve already got many good shots in the regiment and space is limited,” De Foix responds, this time, giving Treville a sharp look that Porthos can’t exactly interpret.

Aramis gives Porthos a shove, clearly willing him to step forward and accept the position, but Porthos already knows that he’s not going anywhere unless Aramis is going with him. He stands as tall as he can, trying to be polite and proud. “With all due respect, sir, no one you have in Paris is better than Aramis,” Porthos says. “And I don’t go anywhere without him. So I have to deny your offer,” he says the words, even as much as they ache to say.

He doesn’t wait for a response, turning to head back to his tent as he ignores both Aramis’ pleas and Lavoisier’s commanding bark.

What he hadn’t missed (but he can’t exactly understand) is why Treville had looked so damn heartbroken when Porthos had refused him.

*

“You need to stop being an idiot,” Aramis says, huffing as he pushes open the flaps of the tent with dramatic flare, perching himself on their shared cot. His pride is stung, Porthos can see that much, but he seems angrier with Porthos. “You shouldn’t have turned them down, Porthos. That was your chance to go to the Musketeers!”

Porthos gives Aramis a cross look as he yanks his bandanna off his head. “Without you? No chance,” he insists, shoving his outer layers into the trunk they’ve been sharing between the both of them.

The regiment has never demanded to know the truth about the both of them and Aramis and Porthos aren’t in a rush to tell, but it’s fairly clear that there is only _one_ cot in their tent and _one_ trunk between the both of them.

It’s fairly clear in that Aramis is never somewhere without Porthos or vice-versa, and from the fact that Porthos makes odd noises in his sleep (an excuse wearing thin, they both know).

“Something else will come along and it’ll be for both of us,” Porthos says, a firm believer that everything happens for just cause. It’s a belief he’s had to develop, because the alternative is too crushing to imagine that his whole miserable childhood had been spent in poverty and horror for no good reason.

Aramis sighs and pats his lap, to which Porthos goes eagerly, laying out horizontally so that Aramis can bury his fingers in the curls on Porthos’ head. “How can you be so optimistic?”

“Something else has to come up,” he says again, but with far more stubborn conviction this time. “They’re mad if they think they should take me and not you. Besides, how many times have you denied passing groups because they wouldn’t take me?” he reminds Aramis quietly. “I’m just returning the favour.”

From where he’s lying, there’s nothing and no one more beautiful and perfect than Aramis. Porthos lifts himself up to press an upside-down kiss to his lips, needing that reassurance that even in this, they’re together.

“And if you leave me on Treville’s floor, gagged and bound with a note saying to take me, I’m just going to return here a dishonourable man,” Porthos warns with a shrug, twisting their bodies so that he’s wrapped around Aramis, able to stroke his fingers over his hips as they lie here in their shared bed.

The night sounds are calm around them, with no hint of any battle to be waged to keep them attentive. These are the sort of nights when Porthos finds himself able to open himself and talk about everything and anything. There’s been something weighing on his mind since earlier that day, but he’s been waiting for privacy to say it.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “Why would Treville want me and not you?”

“He saw what you could do, Porthos,” Aramis replies. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Everyone saw what I could do. None of them wanted me,” he reasons. “They saw my skin and they didn’t care what I could do. Besides, you saw the way Treville stared at me. What if he’s got some weird fetish?”

“Then he’ll have to get in line behind me,” Aramis announces with a flourish. “He was interested in the proceedings. I didn’t notice any unsightly staring at your arse and I would. My gaze is practically permanently fixed in that direction.”

Aramis sneaks one hand down to grope at Porthos’ arse as if to prove his point and Porthos has the decency to laugh, leaning back against the touch with a rueful smile up at him. Porthos wants to believe Aramis, but it’s hard to when he’s spent his whole life feeling slightly inferior to his other soldiers, even though Porthos knows that’s not true.

Except society is talented at shoving that self-confidence down until Porthos is unsure whether he’s right about that.

“He kept staring,” Porthos says, refusing to give this up.

Aramis sighs and turns Porthos onto his side so they lie there, able to look at one another. “I did notice that he seemed to have his eye on you, but hardly in an untoward way. I think your skills just caught his attention. Maybe he’s seen a dozen wonderful shots in his tour, but no one as strong or capable as you?” 

Porthos settles back against Aramis’ bare chest, enjoying the comfortable sprawl that comes of being secure and in his arms. They’re usually left alone, but Porthos still cherishes this time because it’s the most intimacy he’s ever had and no one is trying to take that away from him.

Maybe that’s why he’s scared to leave and go somewhere without Aramis.

He’s not sure he’ll ever find something like this again.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I don’t know why he’d want me and not you, but I’m not changing my mind, Aramis. I don’t go unless you do.”

“We’ll see,” Aramis replies in that infuriating way he has, of seeming so nonchalant and careless about a thing when Porthos has invested all of his stubborn determination and every last emotion into an idea. Aramis seems to cope with them so easily and is able to handle this sort of rejection as if he doesn’t care, when Porthos knows that isn’t the case.

Sighing, he knows he’s not bound to win this argument any time tonight, which means he might as well settle down for the evening and relax. Aramis seems content to let the subject die down, curling Porthos into his arms. Despite another two attempts to revive the conversation, Porthos manages to fall asleep without having to argue his not going.

When he wakes up, though, his comfortable pillow is already gone from under him.

Porthos blearily stares around the tent and finds, to his dismay, that all of his things have been packed up and are waiting for him at the flap. Jumping to his feet, Porthos rushes to get his breeches on, tugging on his doublet as he rushes out of the tent – hair in disarray and a wild pattern of pillow marks on his face.

“There he is,” Aramis announces cheerfully, from where he’s standing beside the wagon and speaking to De Foix. 

Porthos charges ahead, grabbing Aramis by the shoulder of his shirt to haul him aside, muttering as polite an ‘excuse me’ as he can muster before he shoves Aramis and glowers at him with all the fury that a man like him can possess.

“Yes, dear?”

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that if we want to get to Paris, we’d better hurry,” Aramis replies.

 _We_.

“What?” 

“I know you’re not a morning person, so you’re somewhat confused, but Treville has slept on it and has decided that if it takes adding another sharpshooting to the ranks, then he’s more than willing to take me on if it means getting you,” Aramis announces, looking extra smug as he says it. If they weren’t standing in public like this, Porthos might have no recourse but to kiss him in order to wipe that look off his face.

For a dream that had seemed closed to him, Porthos is now faced with the alarming reality that they’re going to Paris.

“We’re going to join the Musketeers?” he verifies, as if he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming.

“Not barefoot and dressed like that,” Aramis notes, clucking his tongue. “Go and get ready, Porthos. The King won’t wait forever for us.”

That’s all that Porthos needs to rouse him to action, tightening his grip on Aramis’ shirt to prevent himself from doing something mad like kissing the man, before nodding in thanks to De Foix and a silent Treville, eager to take up their chance before it slips away from them. Porthos notes that Treville is still staring at him in that odd way he has of it, but given that he’s just been given everything he’s wanted, he doesn’t have it in him to care.

“We’re off to be Musketeers,” Porthos says joyfully.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Lavoisier warns, but he looks fairly proud himself.

“Us? Cause trouble?” Aramis replies, looking resoundingly innocent for a man who is certainly anything but. “ _Never_.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s no surprise that the moment Aramis and Porthos reach Paris, they both begin to cause a great deal of trouble. The first comes when they are assigned quarters at opposite ends of the garrison. It makes sneaking away for illicit trysts into somewhat hard work, but Porthos quietly makes a few trades with another Musketeer until he gets the quarters beside Aramis. 

Beyond that, Porthos had discovered gambling in Paris and Aramis had discovered the many rich patronesses they could acquire to fund his habits.

It’s all well and good until one night, Porthos and Aramis end up fighting a Red Guard who’s defensive about losing so much of his money. That’s when they first meet Athos, the man oft spoken of, but never seen until now. He’s been in the countryside on some private errand for Treville, but the legends about him are rife in the regiment.

Ice cold blue eyes and no soul, they say.

As if the snow had taken the form of a man. 

Porthos hadn’t been sure what to expect, so when a man in Musketeer regalia turns up and knocks the Red Guard out using a serving tray, he’s at first indebted. Aramis is still loading up his musket as a deterrent, but Porthos reaches out to stay his hand, giving the man a curious look.

“What’d you do that for?” Porthos asks gruffly, unwary of needing too much help – especially when he could have handled it himself. “I had it in hand.”

“And let you get bruised up so Treville would have my head? I don’t think so,” the man remarks calmly, digging out a handkerchief to begin polishing the tray before he sets it down with a nod of thanks. “He assigned me personally to bring you back to the garrison. You’ve an assignment, the both of you,” he says, gaze sliding to Aramis.

Porthos fights the urge to shiver, which is when he gets the feeling they’re meeting the infamous Athos.

“Athos?” Aramis asks, while Porthos is still putting things together. “And here I began to think you a myth.”

Athos raises his brow and tucks away the handkerchief calmly, gesturing to the door. “Let’s not keep the Captain waiting. He was displeased when I told him that you were out gambling.”

“And how’d you know that?” Porthos asks.

“Treville has made it a point that I’m aware of your presence at all times,” Athos says.

That’s odd, and both Aramis and Porthos seem aware of that. They share a look and Porthos gives Aramis an emphatic look as if to point out that there _is_ something strange afoot and he’s not going mad. Aramis makes a small sound to indicate they’ll definitely be discussing it later, but there’s no time to fixate on that. Porthos nods dutifully as he wanders outside to the alley, curious about the man who’s been assigned to watch him.

“How’d you pull watchdog duty?” Porthos asks.

“Treville said that if he found me drunk in an alleyway one more time, I’d regret it,” Athos replies evenly, walking in front of them at a brisk pace. “His version of punishment is to watch over the new recruits, it seems. For the best. While the others are actually calmly practicing their skills at the garrison, you two have decided to cause a ruckus that will have the Cardinal on our heads. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Porthos decides not to mention that the coins in his pocket from winning make him plenty satisfied. Still, he places his hand in his pocket to let the coins jangle just enough to keep him pleased and satisfied with his luck (created by himself thanks to the right card played at the right time).

“So is the assignment a punishment?”

“I’d say so,” Athos agrees. “You’re both assigned to palace guard duty. And yes, gentleman, it is exactly as riveting as it sounds. You’ll stand outside the doors while King, Queen, and Cardinal discuss the affairs of France with the council for hours and hours on end.”

Aramis is better at hiding his dismay, but Porthos isn’t and the distaste shows on his face – though only part is for the boring task and part being for the time he’s about to spend surrounded by a class of people who’ll look down on him.

“Next time,” Athos says, “maybe stop gambling away the good assignments, hmm?”

Once they reach the garrison, Athos leaves them alone. It’s as if he’s been a particularly abrupt, curt, and frankly somewhat rude ghost.

Porthos waits until he’s absolutely clear, bursting into a peal of surprised laughter that Aramis joins in on, because it’s so completely absurd and yet, Athos has lived up to every ridiculous rumour that’s been spoken about him. 

“I didn’t think he existed,” Porthos finally says, when Aramis clasps his shoulder and directs him onwards to the Captain’s quarters so they can receive their duty. 

“I’m still not entirely convinced he does. Maybe he’s a shared hallucination, from the wine,” Aramis suggests, rapping on Treville’s door.

“Come in!”

Porthos clears his throat and bows his head to shake off the amusement, knowing that the last thing he needs is to show up in Treville’s quarters half-drunk, laughing about one of his prized Musketeers, and appearing that he doesn’t care at all for their duty. He pries his hat from his head and steps inside, falling into line beside Aramis.

Treville definitely knows what they’ve been up to, because when they arrive, all that he lets them do is suffer in silence for at least a full minute.

It starts to get so uncomfortable that Porthos wonders whether anyone is going to ever speak again, and that’s when Treville finally looks up at them. “Gambling?” he says, sounding disappointed. “And fighting the Red Guard? Lavoisier warned me of the two of you, but I thought that a move to Paris might dull some of your _antics_ ,” he says sharply.

“We didn’t intend to cause any distress,” Aramis pipes up, because he’s usually able to talk them out of any trouble. “How were we to know that the Red Guards of Paris are touchy about a lost game of cards?”

Treville doesn’t look too impressed by the reasoning.

“You’re both assigned to palace duty, beginning _tonight_ ,” Treville says, shooting them both pointed looks that quiet any arguments before they can even pass their lips. “That means standing outside the door and making sure no unwanted guests arrive. Between the two of you, I’m sure the job of one man will be easy,” he finishes, clipped and clearly pissed off about their transgressions earlier in the evening. “Can I trust the two of you to not mess this up?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus dutifully.

“Good,” Treville huffs, glancing up once more – and his gaze lands on Porthos, he’s so sure – before he hands out the paper. “Bring this with you in case anyone asks for your credentials. I’m sure the Cardinal will poke his nose into this,” he says. Something on his face turns fearful, but it’s gone as soon as it’d arrived. “Whatever that man says, be wary of his words,” he warns.

“Sir?” Porthos asks, confused why they’d have to ask that.

“Just be careful, Porthos,” Treville says, and dismisses them.

Clutching the sealed papers in hand, Porthos leads the way out, giving Aramis a wary look. It looks like he isn’t the only one suspicious, though, because Aramis is clearly mulling something over and wants to speak his piece.

“Why only me?” Porthos says, as they begin to collect their things for their trip to the palace – the cold night air doing a good job of sobering him up. “Why’s it only me that needs to be careful? Does he think I’m the fuck up?”

“It is strange,” Aramis agrees cautiously. “Certainly something is afoot that we ought to look into. Of course, this might be best done after we’ve survived the graveyard shift of becoming the most elegant statues the palace has ever seen,” he says, glancing around them to ensure they’re alone before he strokes Porthos’ neck with his hand, rubbing his thumb in circles at the nape of his neck. “It’ll be fine,” he promises. “We’ll investigate and find out why Treville is so drawn to you.”

Porthos can’t shake the feeling that something strange is definitely afoot, but he doesn’t even have time to worry about that because they’re relieving the last of the Musketeers so they can go get some well-deserved sleep.

And so they can settle in for the shift that no one in their right minds want.

“Maybe Treville just hates men of my colour,” Porthos suggests quietly, when he’s sure that the only people left in the room are the Cardinal and King, up late discussing some ridiculously important policy, if it means the two of them have to stay at it at all hours.

Aramis throws a warning glare his way.

“What?” Porthos hisses. “Why not?”

“Because he readily took you with no qualms and has never treated you as less,” Aramis counters, adjusting his grip on his musket. “Maybe he’s just got eyes and admires your physical subject.”

“Does he stare at my arse?”

“No, and I’d know. I always stare there,” Aramis cheerfully remarks, though it’s whispered on the off-chance they’re being listened to. “Maybe it’s not a physical interest. Perhaps there is a fallen Musketeer that you resemble?” he says. “Perhaps he even feels guilty for the loss of the man.”

It seems pat and too good to be true, but it’s the most solid theory they’ve had so far.

While the Cardinal raises his voice about something (the Navy, by the sounds of it), Porthos lets the angry tones lull him into a litany of thoughts about whether Aramis is right. It would be good to find out for good, one way or the other; even though he has the feeling he can’t just ask Treville something like that.

He’s still lost deep in thought when the massive double doors open. It takes Aramis hissing at him to break him out of the trance, just in time to perform a sweeping bow as Louis storms out of the room, muttering on about how he doesn’t understand why the Cardinal can’t just do as he’s told. 

Said Cardinal comes out after at a halting pace. Porthos keeps bowed, but the Cardinal doesn’t seem swayed by the late hour. There have been rumours, of course, that the man is half-bat and doesn’t sleep. Seeing him now, Porthos might have gone with creature of the night, given the starkly grave look to him.

“Who are you?” he demands.

Aramis straightens first, replacing his hat upon his head. “We’re new recruits, with the King’s Musketeers. I’m Aramis and this is Porthos,” he introduces sunnily, while Porthos rights himself just in time to see the Cardinal eyeing him suspiciously.

“Porthos?” he murmurs. “And do you have a last name?”

“Only the one I’ve taken on for myself,” he agrees with a nod of his head. “Porthos du Vallon.”

“Interesting,” the Cardinal replies, sparing the quickest of glances towards Aramis. “Very well,” he says, eyes flitting between the both of them again. “We’re finished for the evening. You’re dismissed,” he says with a wave of his fingers.

Before they can get too far, though, the Cardinal clears his throat and stops Aramis and Porthos at the door. As one, they turn in tandem to see what the man has to say.

“Tell Treville that I would greatly like for him to set some time aside,” the Cardinal remarks, a dangerous look on his face that Porthos is wary of – it’s the look of a man who _knows_ something. “Tell him it’s about time we reconciled the past. Oh,” he adds, as calmly as he can. “And please, tell him that the Marquis du Belgard sends his regards.”

And then, with a sweepingly dramatic exit, the Cardinal leaves in a flurry.

“Now that,” Aramis says darkly, “was odd.”

“I thought the Marquis du Belgard was dead,” Porthos remarks; not entirely one for gossip, but still well-learned enough to know which nobles are kicking around.

Aramis settles his hat upon his head, staring suspiciously in the direction the Cardinal had left. “As did I,” he agrees. “Come on, best we get back to Treville and relay the message before the Cardinal has any more foreboding advice to give.”

Porthos nods, happy to be leaving the palace (even though he knows he’s not bound to get much sleep at all at this rate), but the Cardinal’s words have shaken him for reasons he doesn’t rightly understand.

All that he knows is that he needs to start finding some answers.

*

When they return back to the garrison, Aramis tries to get Porthos into bed using all his wiles, but Porthos’ mind is occupied on other matters. Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could do that tonight.

Sighing, Aramis ends up half-naked and propping up his chin with his hand. “You’re not going to even sleep until you relay the message, are you?” he says, prying off his boots and dropping them where he likes on the floor.

Porthos nods, digging his thumbs into his belt. The sun has begun to climb in the sky and Treville is usually the first one up in the mornings. It means that if Porthos goes to talk to him now, he might not be waking him up from his rest. “Go to sleep, Aramis,” Porthos says, leaning in to brush a kiss to the side of his lips, trying to shake the nervous feeling that something is about to happen.

He knows Treville isn’t likely to be rash, given what Porthos knows of the man (even in the short time they’ve been acquainted), but the Cardinal had been so ominous and chilling.

Porthos hadn’t even known people could actually be so sinister in real life.

“Take care,” Aramis sleepily warns, but his yawn is swallowed up so quickly and before Porthos even leaves, he’s well on his way to sleep.

Porthos lets out a fond huff of laughter as he closes the door shut behind him and steadies himself for the conversation he’s about to have. He glances skywards to see that the sun is still climbing slowly, but it’s still high enough that he’s not worried about waking up Treville. 

When he arrives at the man’s office, his suspicions are confirmed by the sound of papers being shuffled around and a low litany of frustrated profanities. Porthos contains his amusement and raps lightly on the door. “Captain, sir, do you have a moment?”

“Porthos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, come in,” Treville quickly replies. 

Porthos lets himself into the office, coming to stand at parade rest directly in front of Treville. For all that it’s early in the morning, Treville doesn’t look weary at all. In fact, he looks as if he’s been well-rested and is ready for a long day ahead.

“How did it go?”

“Long, boring, and probably exactly what you meant for us,” Porthos replies wryly. “Went off without a hitch and I’ve learned my lesson about getting in trouble.” More like he’s learned his lesson about getting caught, but there’s no need to go shooting off his mouth to the man that’s helping him. 

“Good,” Treville replies absently, still going over his papers. “Good.”

“There was one thing,” Porthos admits, having weighed whether he’s going to pass on the Cardinal’s words, but has the feeling that if he doesn’t, Richelieu will be here by morning to tell Treville himself. “When they were leaving, the Cardinal stopped to look us over, gave us a bit of an eye.”

“No trouble, though?”

“No, sir,” Porthos promises, shaking his head. “Only that he wanted to book some time with you. Something about the past? And then he told us to pass along the Marquis du Belgard’s regards.”

Treville finally looks up and when he does, it’s as if he’s seen a ghost. He goes white with it and slumps into his chair (which luckily is right behind him, because Porthos suspects that if it weren’t, Treville would be a very shocked heap on the floor right now). Porthos advances cautiously, ready to try and shock Treville back to sense, but Treville waves him back.

“No, I’m fine,” he swears, staring up at Porthos with the fear that Porthos had never wanted to see someone look at him with. “You’re sure he said that to you? Those exact words?”

“Aramis and I both thought it a bit strange, given that as far as we know, the Marquis is dead. He is dead, isn’t he?”

“Mugged in the streets of Paris nearly three decades ago,” Treville confirms. The breath he takes in makes his chest expand and rattles as it comes out. “Porthos, sit down with me,” he says.

Porthos isn’t usually the one who sits back and observes. Aramis, with his sniper training, has long been the one with careful eyes, always quick to spot threats. Porthos is equipped to handle them, but he’s not dim, either. He’s had to learn a lot about evaluating his surroundings to survive. Right now, Treville is sending off warning flares. His pulse is rocketing, his skin is pale, and he’s sweating.

Something is going on and Porthos is tired of dancing around it.

“Sir, has this got something to do with the way you’ve been treating me?”

Treville looks up, alarmed. “You’ve noticed?”

“I think it’d take a blind man not to,” Porthos admits apologetically, finally taking the seat that Treville had offered him. He grips the edges of it hard, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if something gets said that he doesn’t agree with. “What’s the Cardinal care about a dead man for?”

“It’s less the man himself and more what he represents,” Treville confesses. “The Cardinal remains unhappy to have lost the Captain of the King’s Guard in an alleyway mugging, which he blames on me.”

“Sir?” Porthos asks warily.

Treville pinches his brow and shakes his head. He seems older, suddenly, like he’s aged a decade in the short time they’ve been sitting here talking. He slumps forward, elbows on the desk, and when he draws his hands away from his face, he looks so sudden and severe that Porthos starts to fear his place in the regiment.

“Sir?” Porthos tries again. “Did Aramis and I do something that displeased the Cardinal?”

“No,” Treville replies warily. “No, Porthos. The Cardinal has something over my head at the moment, but I don’t think he will possess that much longer at all. Porthos, what do you know about your mother? About your father?”

Porthos recoils backwards into the chair. This is the most unexpected turn that this conversation could have possibly taken and he’s left not knowing how to even respond to something like that. He’s not even sure why it matters, but maybe the Cardinal had somehow been a part of it? Maybe this Belgard had been involved, somehow.

“I knew my mother until I was five,” he replies, trying to even out the anguish from his voice. This is hard to talk about at the best of times and discussing it with a near stranger isn’t exactly anywhere near the ‘best’. “Never knew my father. Never got a chance. All I knew was my mother and the Court.”

“I’m very sorry for that, Porthos,” Treville says. “It was never my intention that you would grow up there.”

Though he’s looking down at his lap, Porthos freezes up as if ice has been spilled over his back. When he looks up, there’s accusation in his eyes and he’s not so sure he’s ready to let Treville off the hook for whatever responsibility he’s claiming in this.

“Your intention?” he echoes. “What has that got to do with any of this? What have you got to do with any of this?”

Porthos holds Treville’s gaze and doesn’t flinch. He refuses to flinch. He reads the guilt and the worry and something else he’s had a hard time placing in his eyes and he keeps on, steadily, not willing to be the one to flinch first.

“Porthos, the reason I care so much about what happens to you is because you’re the only living kin I’ve got left,” Treville says. “You’re my son, Porthos.”

He shakes his head, the instant need to argue that swelling. “No,” he gets out, gutturally.

“Your mother, Marie, was to be my wife…”

“No,” Porthos reiterates again, as if he hasn’t been searching all his life for exactly these answers. Despite his desperation to find out about his past, he’d never expected to come face to face with it at the Musketeer garrison. “Captain, stop talking,” he warns, though it’s more of a plea than anything else.

Treville smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Porthos, but you need to hear this. Belgard is the reason you were taken from me. The night he abandoned you both in the Court, he was mugged and killed in an alleyway. The commotion overshadowed what he’d done, but his final words to me had been proud delight at saving me from a fate that he didn’t realize I wanted with all my heart.”

Porthos can feel his heart hammering against his chest so hard that it may well crack open. He’s exhausted and the drink from the night before has long since abandoned his blood. Now, he’s been left to deal with this sober.

The trouble is, he’s not sure he _can_ deal with it.

“My mother’s name was Marie,” is all Porthos manages, choosing to focus on that and not the fact that he’s sitting across from the father he’d dreamed of all his childhood.

The father that hadn’t found him until now.

The father who had most likely brought him into the Musketeers out of guilt or, worse, nepotism.

“Yes,” Treville agrees warmly. “The most beautiful woman I had ever known. Witty, sharp, and clever. Never let me get away with anything,” he says, and the grief in his voice is easily recognized to Porthos, who feels it all the time. “I loved her with all my heart. The both of you. I had such dreams of raising you, but Belgard stole it from us,” he finishes bitterly.

There are a dozen questions in Porthos’ mind, like why the Cardinal cares (but why shouldn’t he? Some bastard child of Treville’s potentially stepping in and wanting to claim a higher stake in the Musketeers? Not to mention the scandal of it all), and what’s supposed to happen now, but all he can land on is the fact that he’s sitting here because of who he’s related to and not his skills.

“I didn’t earn this, did I?” he wonders roughly, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Porthos” Treville tries to cut him off.

“No,” he argues heatedly. “It doesn’t matter what I can do or how good a soldier I am. Soon as you saw me and saw my name, soon as you knew who I was, was there _any_ future where you didn’t bring me back to Paris? Is that why you didn’t want to bring Aramis? There were no spots left, not really, were there?” he challenges.

Treville’s silence speaks for itself and Porthos has to wonder which two deserving men didn’t make it into the Musketeers because of him.

Shaking his head, Porthos knows he needs to get out of there before something cruel is said or something stupid is done. For all that he feels guilty, he doesn’t want to leave the Musketeers so quickly and he can hear Aramis’ voice in his head telling him not to do anything rash.

That means he needs to get out of there as quickly as he can.

“Sir,” he bites out, refusing to look Treville in the eye as he turns on his heels and leaves, grimacing as he leaves in a rush. 

It takes every ounce of determination to make it back upstairs to Aramis’ quarters, but finds the man deep asleep when he gets there. Not willing to disturb him and wake him up, Porthos grabs his purse of coin and heads for the second best place of solace he knows – the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While things may seem pretty wrapped up, there is still one more chapter to go!

There aren’t many other drinkers at this time in the morning. Porthos is accompanied by an old lady and her cat, several men who have yet to go home for the night, and the smattering of men who have left their wives to tend the business while they enjoy the benefits of their profits. In the corner, for the last hour, there is also a dark shadow that Porthos still recognizes, despite the amount of alcohol he’s attempted to drink to forget that.

“I don’t want company,” Porthos calls across the bar.

“That’s a shame,” Athos replies, crossing the bar to set two bottles of wine noisily on the table.

Porthos scowls at their presence, more irritated by Athos. “I don’t want you here if Treville sent you.”

“He hasn’t said a word to me this morning. I saw you storm out of his office and noted that Aramis is still asleep. I thought, perhaps, you might need someone to watch over you, lest I be called on to break up another fight.”

Porthos is stubborn about wanting any help, but equally stubborn about the fact that right now, he’s probably useless in the event a fight did break out and could use someone to watch him. Privately, he’s also glad that it isn’t Aramis, because the last thing he wants (or needs) is to burden the man with these issues so early in the morning. There will be plenty of time to get to them later, but now is not the time.

“You’re not going to ask why I’m so upset?” Porthos asks when Athos has done nothing but sit opposite of him, pouring himself a healthy drink that even Porthos questions (given the hour of the morning). 

Athos glances up and lifts his brow. “You don’t seem to want to discuss the matter,” he points out. “I’m respecting that silence.”

The trouble is that Porthos _does_ want to talk about it. He wants to talk about it until he loses his voice, seeing as he’s been waiting to talk about this all his life. The matter is delicate, though, given Treville’s position and while Porthos might be irritated and angry with the man, he refuses to put him in a perilous position. For all that Athos seems to be a perfectly honourable man, Porthos doesn’t know him well enough to trust him with this secret.

“Can’t a man just want an early morning drink?” he gruffly mutters.

“I assure you, you’ll never hear argument from me on such a point,” Athos replies, almost gentle in his words. Athos’ attention turns to where Porthos is toying with the clasps of his pauldron, which he’s been doing since he arrived. “Meaning to take that off?”

“Yes,” Porthos says, firmly. Then, “no,” he sighs out, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I need more alcohol.”

“I find that only makes decisions more difficult,” Athos replies, saluting Porthos with his drink as though he plans to drink in antithesis of his statement. “Emotions can run high and be brought to the surface, with too much alcohol.”

“Don’t know if they could go any higher,” Porthos says, rubbing his fingers on the table to avoid touching them to the pauldron. He figures they can probably talk about this somewhat, so long as Porthos doesn’t get into specifics. “I finally got the answers to the questions I’ve been asking for a very long time.”

“Ah,” Athos murmurs knowingly. “I take it that the answers weren’t to your satisfaction?”

That’s not it, though. Porthos doesn’t even know whether he’s satisfied with the answers. It could be worse. There are certainly worse people in the world than Treville, but Porthos imagines that part of the reason he’s so upset is the way it’s been handled. If Treville really wanted any real part in Porthos’ life, wouldn’t he have started with that? Shouldn’t it have been the first thing they ever talked about?

Then again, would Porthos had even believed him? 

His head aches from the combination of stress, alcohol, and lack of sleep and he fears it’s going to lead him into some poor decisions. For that reason, too, he’s glad to have Athos here with him. Still, the desire to go out and get in a really stupid fistfight is a hard one to ignore. It’s been how he worked through issues in the past, but he’s living a new life, now.

A new life with a finally found father – that one’s going to take a while to get used to.

“I wanted them a lot earlier,” Porthos settles for answering Athos’ question with something resembling the truth. He hasn’t really touched his drink since they started talking and Porthos overcompensates for that now, draining it back desperately.

“Life would be much easier if we knew all its truths at the start,” Athos says with something that sounds intimately like a man who knows what he’s talking about. He nods towards Porthos’ cup of wine. “Go on, drink up,” he coaxes. “I’ll make sure you get back to the garrison safely. Aramis won’t even have to have my head.”

Porthos feels a sudden bolt of worry that Athos has noticed exactly how close the two of them are, but he doesn’t continue and he doesn’t seem keen to blackmail Porthos with what he’s observed, so it seems as if they’re tentatively truced. Besides, Athos is offering alcohol and seems willing to pay for it, given the coins he’s spilling out onto the table. Porthos would be mad not to take advantage.

They manage to get through mid-morning without talking about Porthos’ issues, though it does leave the field of topics open for others.

“So what’s your deal?” Porthos wonders, when he’s had just a little too much to drink to understand this is hardly a question he should be asking. 

Athos makes it very clear that the topic is far from being within limits with the icy glare he’s come to be known for. It’s funny, but coming from those ice-blue eyes, Porthos genuinely feels as if the temperature in the tavern has dipped enough to make his blood grow a touch colder. Porthos supposes that he’s not going to get an answer to that and blames the drink for getting him hopeful that he might.

“Just as you have the answer you don’t like, so I have my own,” he says. “Except, mine have led me here for many more early morning drinks than yours have, at this rate.”

Athos rises, hoisting Porthos up to his feet – no small task for a man lacking the body weight that makes Porthos so large. Porthos struggles slightly, but allows Athos to tote him back to the garrison with little trouble, mostly because the majority of the fight went out of Porthos a lot earlier today.

Now, all that he’s occupied with is what Treville had told him and trying to figure out what to do with that kind of information.

By the time they reach the yard, Aramis is awake and has been pacing frantically, judging by the appearance of his hair (which always gets messy when he runs his hands through it so nervously). Porthos avoids looking at Treville and is glad that Athos bears him straight to Aramis.

“You reek like you’ve been brewing the stuff,” Aramis remarks with a surprised cry, waving a hand in front of his nose. “What on earth were you doing?” His gaze slides to Athos, as if looking for explanation, but Athos merely shrugs. “I’ve got him,” Aramis promises, and the process of changing Porthos from Athos’ shoulder to Aramis is a complicated one.

Porthos licks his lips and curls into Aramis’ waiting warmth, eager to find bed for the first time in far, far too long. 

As they ascend the stairs, Aramis gives Porthos a cross look, tinged with something disappointed. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with not telling me what’s happened,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were asleep and I needed a drink,” Porthos mumbles, grunting when Aramis opens the door to Porthos’ quarters and shoves him down to the bed before him. He stays on his stomach, childishly reaching for the pillow so he can shove it under his face. For all that he’s been after this news for years and years, it feels strange to have it.

Worst, it doesn’t make him feel better the way he’d always hoped it would.

Aramis takes the seat beside him on the bed, gently rubbing his fingers in circles along Porthos’ back, rubbing over the linen of his shirt. “My dear giant of a man, you know that sharing a burden instantly makes the load lighter. Tell me what’s gone wrong,” he coaxes.

Porthos swallows back the lump in his throat as he turns slightly, rubbing at his eyes (while not filled with tears, they feel hot and itchy, like his exhaustion has caught up to him). “Treville brought me into his office and I asked about what Richelieu had said.”

“And...?”

“I know why Treville pays so much mind to me compared to the others,” Porthos says, the misery wobbling in his words as he works to get them out. He stares at Aramis, his brow furrowed and he wonders if he’ll even be believed. Why should he be? To anyone else, he might seem like someone just after money or perhaps even a better place in the regiment. “He says he’s my father.”

Aramis, though, loves Porthos as a friend, a brother, and as something more. If anyone will understand that Porthos is grappling with a new truth and not wishing to exploit it, it will be him.

“Do you believe him?”

“What reason does he have to lie?” Porthos questions, which is the true issue behind all of this. It might have been easier to assume that Treville had merely been lying, but there’s no cause for that. There’s absolutely no good reason, which just leaves Porthos thinking that it must be the truth. He’s finally found the father he was after.

Aramis keeps rubbing Porthos’ back. “What happened? Why did he abandon you and your mother?”

“He says he didn’t,” Porthos mumbles into the pillow, hoping that Aramis can hear him, because he’s not sure he can bear to look at Aramis right now as he explains this story, which still grieves his heart. “But that Belgard stole us in the middle of the night, thinking he was doing Treville some sort of service. He left us in the Court, but before Treville could ask where we’d been taken, Belgard was murdered in an alley.”

“And why didn’t he go after you?” Aramis asks heatedly. 

“Aramis, he didn’t know where Belgard had taken us. Only that Belgard had the intention to do right by Treville,” Porthos mumbles, aware that he’s defending a man for no reason other than the fact he thinks it unfair to blame him for someone else’s faults, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? He still feels too drunk and too sick and he reaches for Aramis. “Might need the bucket.”

“I’ll tell Treville that you’re ill and won’t be attending duty today,” Aramis promises. “If he knows what’s best for him, he’ll understand.”

Porthos hates to have Aramis go, wondering if he’ll make sure to excuse himself from the day’s duty as well, but Porthos has the feeling that would be asking for a bit too much. He draws the bucket closer to himself that Aramis had left for him, a miserable set to his face as he lets the truth bounce around and force Porthos to acknowledge it.

Treville is his _father_.

This is a man that Porthos has been after for so long and now that he’s found him, for some reason, he’s filled with regret the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in ages and why? Because he doesn’t like the truth or is it because he doesn’t know what to do with it? He’s much too old to need a father in the ways he had as a child and he’s not about to try and extort money or status from the man.

The biggest question, Porthos supposes, is what Treville wants out of any of this?

Groaning, his head aches and reminds him that he’s not due for any answers while he feels like this and he buries his face a little deeper into his pillow, letting himself drift off into the much needed sleep he’s been fighting off for so long.

* * *

Porthos sleeps the rest of the day and the full night.

Whatever exhaustion (physical and emotional) he had been fighting off now comes back to claim the time it’s owed and steals all those hours away from Porthos. At some point in the night, he feels Aramis join him, but he can’t put a finger on _when_ , exactly. When he wakes, the birds are crowing for the morning and though Porthos’ head still aches, he feels like he’s earned back some of his strength.

He feels Aramis’ hands in his curls and Porthos turns towards him, giving him a bleary, sleepy smile.

“For the life of me, I couldn’t move you,” Aramis remarks. “It’s lucky I didn’t need to get you up.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Aramis gives him a knowing look. “You needed the rest, Porthos. You’ve had an eventful few days.” 

That may be true, but Porthos feels like he needs all the time to figure out what to do next. There have been endless thoughts running through his head that he ought to leave the Musketeers, but stubborn pride is only going to send him back to the army. Knowing Aramis like he does, he also knows that it will bring the man right back with him and he’s seen how Paris has made him flourish. He can’t do that.

And he can’t avoid Treville. The man is their Captain and no matter what tension lies between him and Porthos, that isn’t going to go away. Besides that, Porthos feels a little like he’s wasting his opportunity.

For all that he’s upset, he can still see that this is his chance to get to know his family, as strange as it might be.

Turning in bed, he sprawls out and stretches an arm, curling his toes as he gives Aramis a sleepy look, turning hopeful eyes to him. “Do we have time to stay here for a while?” he asks, rubbing his hand over his chest as he thinks of all the things they can get up to.

“While Treville has been good enough to excuse you from duty for extenuating circumstances, us handsome and unfortunate Musketeers must still go to work,” he laments, burying his hand into Porthos’ curls to bear down and give him a kiss. “And you, Jupiter, ought to go and talk to the man. He’s been patient,” Aramis says. “Hasn’t even asked after you once, even though I can tell he’s dying to.”

“You’re okay with all this?” Porthos asks curiously.

“It’s not for me to decide,” Aramis replies. “You may have my heart, but that doesn’t mean I get to tell you how to feel.” Aramis’ hand slides out of Porthos’ hair, thumb brushing a slow path down the line of his jaw. “Whatever you decide, I’m there to support you. My opinion, however, is that there are worse men than Treville in Paris and few better,” he says warmly. “You could do worse.”

Yes, he could. Porthos sighs as he watches Aramis go, collapsing back onto the bed and wondering how much longer he can stay here and avoid facing the situation head-on. Treville’s confession lingers in his mind and the longer Porthos thinks on it, the worst it makes him feel. True, it was never going to go well, but Porthos feels like it could have gone better.

He sits up slowly, feeling as if his bones ache and creak in ways they haven’t ever before. For all that he’s still a young man, he feels incredibly old, as if finding his family has turned him from the boy who’d yearned all his life into a man who now had to weigh out the family he now got to choose.

And that’s the thought that snaps it for him.

Porthos has a family to _choose_ and he can’t honestly imagine going on without picking a life with Treville in it. He feels awful for being lied to and having missed out on this for so long, but the idea of missing out on it forever makes him panic. He’s quick to dress, taming his hair as best as he can, and though he thinks of putting on the pauldron, he forgoes it as he heads to Treville’s office.

This is not a conversation for Captain and Musketeer, but one for father and son.

Porthos knocks on the door and when Treville summons him in, he hesitates. It takes a quick glance down to the courtyard below and seeing Athos give him an encouraging nod that pushes him inwards, swallowing his fear and trying to replace it with courage, instead.

It’s instantly clear from the look on Treville’s face that Porthos is the last visitor he’s expecting. Porthos gestures to the chair opposite of Treville. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Treville replies, setting aside the missives he’s been reading. He keeps staring at Porthos like he’s some sort of lost waif who’s wandered in and while that might have been true years ago during Porthos’ life in the Court, it’s not now. “Aramis said you were looking better today.”

“He told me you hadn’t asked after me,” Porthos says, with surprise.

“I haven’t. Yet, he’s felt inclined to give me daily updates. How are you feeling?”

Porthos shrugs, not sure how he is feeling, if he’s honest. He feels a bit bad that Treville is looking at him so hopefully, like somehow Porthos is going to say exactly the right thing or do the expected thing, when he can’t really promise any of that. “Still a bit shocked,” he confesses. “Wish I’d taken it a touch better, though. You could’ve done worse. Could’ve left me in that army camp or not giving me a chance.”

“Porthos, you earned your spot here as much as anyone else,” Treville says firmly. “I don’t care what you suspect or think. Everyone who saw you fight knew you had a place, and none of them have any sort of personal connection to you.”

“No stray uncles or cousins, then?” Porthos tries to joke, but it falls weak. “Thing is, Captain, I don’t know how to go from here.”

That’s what’s really causing a stumble. No matter how Porthos tries to imagine a future with a father in it, it comes up blank. He’s got no genuine expectations on what to expect, which should be freeing, but he keeps coming up empty and it’s frustrating and infuriating. He doesn’t sit, but he leans his weight against the bookcase on the wall, arms crossed over his chest as if to defend himself somehow.

“Look, Porthos, I’ve had decades to think about this,” Treville confesses. “Would you mind if I told you what I see for us?”

Porthos gives a tentative nod, eager and hopeful to hear what he has to say. He’d reacted from the heart last time Treville had told him something, but now he needs to calm himself down and be like Athos – calm, impenetrable, and thoughtful.

“I dreamed up a dozen scenarios when I thought about finding you. Most of them, Marie was still with you,” Treville admits. “And yes, some of them were hopeful, impossible things where we could manage to become a family again despite all the hardships, but I think you and I both know that was never going to happen. So instead, I started to think about all the things I missed out on. First words and first steps, teaching you how to fight and hold a sword.”

Porthos stares down at his boots, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him as he thinks back to how he’d learned all those things. His first steps and his first word in the shadows of the Court, learning to fight to defend his food, and picking up a sword because the infantry expected it of him. And still, it had made him into the man he is today.

“I can’t change the past, Porthos,” Treville admits sadly. “We both know that. All that I can hope to do is give you a better future.”

“I don’t want special privileges,” Porthos says, dreading the idea of somehow being vaulted above the others because of his parentage. “In fact, if you don’t mind, Captain, I’d prefer if this stayed between us.” And Aramis, of course, but he doesn’t feel like he has to say that out loud. “You’ve been kind and good to us, but I don’t know if I’m ready to have a proper father.”

“Shall we start with a proper Captain, then?” 

Porthos feels awful that he’s the one causing the strain on Treville’s face, the way the hope seems to be fleeting from his eyes with every passing second, and though he wishes he could give more, he’d rather be honest. This is as much as he can give right now, but he thinks that they’ve got plenty to work with.

He nods, stepping just close enough that his knees hit the desk. He extends his hand out to Treville, intending to shake on it. Maybe they’ll get to a point where he’s ready for an embrace, but he’ll start here.

“Yes, sir,” Porthos agrees, feeling something burst in his chest that feels precariously close to happiness and hope and the stirrings of the awareness that he’s found his own little shard of home after so very long.

“Good,” Treville says, finally smiling. “Now, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ve got parade duty today and I believe you said something about not wanting preferential treatment?”

Porthos holds back his groan and knows that he’s definitely going to come to regret that one.


	4. Chapter 4

Things between them slowly begin to cede from the stern relationship of a Captain and a Musketeer to something more familiar in such a slow way that Porthos doesn’t even notice how starkly different things are until someone else remarks on it. They’re breaking up after a card game and Denon asks if Porthos is going to talk to Treville for their weekly drink and if he is, whether he could return the Captain’s gloves to him.

Porthos opens his mouth to protest that a standing appointment like that doesn’t exist until Aramis shoots him an amused look and Porthos gets knocked aback when he realizes it’s true.

He and Treville have shared a glass of wine every other Friday for the last three months straight. 

Nothing untoward happens during these drinks, but slowly they’ve begun to share opinions and thoughts. Now that Porthos has time to think on it, he realizes he’s been giving Treville small morsels of his life’s history throughout it all. He hasn’t even realized he’d been doing it, but he thinks back to how Treville had tried to hide his smile behind his cup.

Clearly, the man had been fishing for whatever he could find.

Numbly, Porthos accepts the gloves and gives a nod as he begins to head back to the garrison, though he waits for Aramis outside of the bar. “I didn’t even realize,” he admits, a touch stunned that something so routine could pass by without him seeing.

“I just thought you didn’t want to call attention to it,” Aramis says, doffing his hat on his head as he wraps an arm around Porthos’ shoulder to ostensibly steer him home, though Aramis has had far more to drink and is _definitely_ using Porthos for balance. “I think it’s rather sweet. He always gives order in a somewhat happier tone the next day.”

Porthos scowls, though, because him not noticing makes him wonder what else has been slipping his attention.

“Don’t sulk so,” Aramis chides. “Everyone just thinks he’s taken you on as a sort of protégé.”

“That’s Athos,” Porthos contests.

“Athos is his next in line,” Aramis agrees. “The man tries to shirk responsibility, but he’d be lost without a sliver of leadership and someone to command to tide him over. You, dear giant, are the infantry man he intends to turn into a sharp weapon.”

“So no one suspects?”

“It’s a fairly large leap to come to,” Aramis reminds him. They’ve reached the entry to the garrison, where Aramis gives Porthos a mild push. “On you go. Papa’s waiting.”

Porthos glowers at Aramis just a little harder, knowing it will do nothing to dissuade him, and presses Treville’s gloves against his forearm as he slowly takes the stairs. He’s not sure he wants to stop these little meetings, even if people have begun to notice that they’re happening. He knocks on the door, waiting for Treville to allow him entrance, at which point Porthos quickly gets himself inside so no one sees.

Treville barely glances up from where he’s writing, but when his gaze lands on the gloves, relief washes over his face. “I’ve been looking for those all day.”

“You left ‘em with Denon, I think,” Porthos admits, taking the seat and trying to hide his pleased smile when Treville passes him a cup of brandy. On the one hand, he doesn’t like to think he’s getting special treatment, but on the other, this is time he’s been eager for all his life.

It’s not really easy, yet, knowing he’s got a father, but Treville is doing his best to slowly work his way into Porthos’ life without being overbearing or too much. He accepts the drink in exchange for the gloves, rubbing his thumb anxiously around the rim of the cup as he wonders how to break the ice and get into what he really wants to ask for.

Each time they have this drink, Treville tells him stories of the too-brief childhood that Porthos had with the man and his mother, of which Treville seems to have turned the memories into immovable objects in his mind – things that will never be knocked down.

“Have I told you, yet, about your first steps?”

Porthos shakes his head, starved for more information. It feels like he’s permanently thirsty and only these stories of his childhood will slake the thirst, even though he knows that it will never be enough to replace the twenty-five years when he had no family at all.

“Marie was always busy at Belgard’s manour, keeping things in order,” he explains, “so often, she would drop you off here for me to watch you. In her mind, the soldier’s garrison was a safer place than Belgard’s home.” Treville looks at Porthos as if he’s seeing the babe and not the grown man before him. “De Foix had been training some of the younglings while you sat in the corner, intent on sorting through the hay, but as soon as he began to get cross with them, he started to really put them through their paces. One of them got knocked out badly, his blade skittering away from him. I remember it clearly, to this day. I was watching from up at the top and you rocked on your bottom, dug your little fists into the hay, and toppled forward on your face.”

Porthos is leaning forward, soaking it all up as he tries to imagine this, with Treville and De Foix much more the younger.

“Before any of us knew it, you managed to work your way to your steps and fumbled over to the sword, falling at the base of the hilt. Your little hand grasped it, probably for balance,” Treville says proudly. “De Foix was in a panic, but I knew, I _knew_ you’d grow up to be a soldier, just like me.”

“That can’t be true,” Porthos chides.

“Okay, well, maybe you fell on De Foix’s boot, but still, you wanted to be right in the middle of the fray. I had plans to start teaching you, but your mother refused to let you hold a weapon until you were at least six.” Shaking his head, that old bubble of regret appears on Treville’s face as it often does when they’re having this drink. “I should have been more insistent, I should have married her properly, moved the both of you in with me where Belgard couldn’t get to you…”

“Captain,” Porthos cuts him off, knowing where this dark path leads. “What’s past is past.”

“You deserved a better life than you had, Porthos.”

“My life’s not over yet,” he says. “Respectfully, sir.”

“You’re right,” Treville agrees, looking surprised, as if he hadn’t really thought of it that way. He leans forward to peek into Porthos’ cup, finding it still half-full. “In that case, drink up. We’ve got a lot more stories to get through and you’ve got a bad habit of vanishing to spend time with the other Musketeers,” he says, clearly teasing, but it does make Porthos think of something that’s been on his mind lately.

Treville is his father by blood, and quickly becoming one to Porthos in all other ways. Surely, of anyone, he deserves to know the secret Porthos has been keeping about whose bed he prefers to spend his time in. And yet, Porthos cannot forget the punishment for such a crime. It’s been weighing on his mind for a long time now, and with Treville bringing it up, it lingers long after Porthos leaves.

And, in fact, goes straight to another Musketeer.

Carefully, he shuts the door behind him as he sneaks into Aramis’ room, prying off his boots and being as quiet as he can. As always, Aramis knows he’s there the very moment his feet hit the floorboards.

“I hope you’re almost naked,” Aramis mumbles, not even looking up from his pillow.

“How do you always know I’m here? I’m crafty _and_ quiet,” Porthos complains.

“I’d be a poor sniper if I weren’t hypersensitive to noise,” Aramis points out, rolling onto his back so he can beckon to Porthos with open arms. “Come here, Jupiter.”

Porthos crawls into bed with Aramis, feeling weary and worn in a good way. Each time he sits with Treville, they open up a line to the past that leaves Porthos knowing a little more about himself and he’s extremely pleased for it, especially given that he hadn’t counted on ever having this. Adjusting where he lies, he wraps his arms around Aramis from behind, breathing out slowly as he watches how his breath makes the hair on Aramis’ neck dance.

“I’ve been thinking about telling him,” he confesses quietly. “About this.”

That seems to wake Aramis up, who suddenly looks back in a touch of panic. “Do you really think that to be a wise idea?” 

“He’s my father,” Porthos argues, using those three words in defense for the first time in his life. “Do you really think he’s going to turn around and put me on a stake to burn?”

Aramis’ eyes have yet to lose their sheen of panic. “You? Maybe not. Me? Definitely so. Both for it being frowned upon and for me sleeping with his son,” he says, a cry of dismal worry caught in his throat. “Porthos, I really don’t think that’s a wise idea.”

It’s hard to shake, though. Porthos really wants to tell Treville about the person who’s been at his side through all of this and had made it possible for him to get to where he is. And yet, he also knows that because of his love for Aramis, he’s _not_ going to tell Treville.

Huffing out a long breath, he buries his face into Aramis’ neck. “Fine,” he concedes. “I won’t tell him now, but one day, I want to tell him,” he warns.

“One day,” Aramis replies, finally settling back into the sheets, seemingly content for the promise. “Years from now, after I’ve managed to win Treville’s heart through my excellent skills and steady bribery.”

That night, Porthos goes to sleep feeling loved and cherished. Between Treville and Aramis, Porthos is honestly beginning to believe that he’s found a proper home that might not evaporate as soon as things get good.

* * *

Porthos wanders into the yard to a clash of swords, Athos fighting a stranger. He finds Treville quickly, standing at his right hand side as he’s taken to doing often. The garrison has weathered a rough winter, but has turned back to spring and summer and the Musketeers have been enjoying the ability to practice again.

As the time’s passed, Porthos has been using the opportunity to learn more stories. It’s also allowed him to get closer to Treville, who now counts on him as something of a confidant, sharing his worries and plans with him.

“He looks like he’s ready to kill Athos,” Porthos notes of the stranger who’s somehow managing to keep up with the calm man who they’ve come to know as the very best in the regiment.

Treville lets out a huff of a laugh. “I should hope not. I need someone to take over the regiment when I’ve decided I’ve had enough of the lot of you.”

“Who is he, then?” Porthos wonders, privately and quietly glad that Treville hasn’t changed his mind and started talking about Porthos taking over, because that’s something he’s entirely not ready for. 

“His name is Charles d’Artagnan. His father recommended him when he quickly realized his potential was wasted on the farm in Gascony,” Treville advises, standing there and musing on the scene before him. He looks the consummate captain with his legs spread shoulder-width apart (ready to move at a moment’s notice) and rubbing his leathered-glove through his beard. Eventually, he raises his hand to stop the fighting.

Athos wanders over to stand in Treville’s stead while the Captain speaks to the young prospective Musketeer, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. 

“He looks eager,” Porthos deadpans.

“The perils of youth,” Athos agrees. “Luckily, he has skill to make up for being so very, annoyingly young.”

Porthos smirks as he looks at how Treville clasps him on the shoulder and leads him to where Athos is drinking from his cup (and it should be water, but Porthos can smell the wine). He stands at attention, trying to be at his best for the introduction.

“This is Porthos,” Treville says. “One of very best. When you’re good and ready, we’ll put you against him for hand to hand.”

Porthos can’t help the delight at the look of panic that flickers over d’Artagnan’s eyes. Porthos knows he’s an imposing man, but it’s even better when he sees the pride in Treville’s eyes. It’s that look and the knowledge that he really and truly trusts the Captain that makes up Porthos’ mind.

He’s going to tell him the truth about him and Aramis – he’s going to tell Treville the only secret he’s got left telling.

“Can I have a word, sir?” Porthos requests politely, when Athos and d’Artagnan fall into chatter about improvements to his footwork.

Treville nods and brings Porthos into his office. Aramis will probably be cross with Porthos not giving him fair warning that Porthos is going to tell the Captain, but Porthos genuinely thinks that while Treville might not be ecstatic with the news, he’s also hardly going to have them locked up. At least, Porthos has to hope not, otherwise his judgment is absolutely incorrect when it comes to people.

Still, it doesn’t keep the nerves away, making Porthos sweat to the point that Treville will easily see the small beads of it on his forehead.

“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Now that they’re in the same room, speaking privately, Porthos is beginning to wonder whether this is a good idea. He wrings his gloves until he’s pried them off his hands and wanders closer to the desk, though he doesn’t sit. 

“Porthos?” Treville prods, clearly growing worried. “What is it?”

“I like to think that we’ve been getting closer,” Porthos starts. “You’ve been telling me so many stories and I really appreciate it. I know that you want to know everything about me in turn and I can’t help feeling like I’ve been withholding something from you, out of fear as to how you’d react.”

“About your childhood?” Treville ventures, his mind obviously led down a path that ends up in the Court of Miracles. Although there’s plenty about his years there that Porthos regrets, he feels as if he’s told Treville about all of it – the good and the bad – though he might have eased away from certain details. “Porthos, you can tell me.”

“I need your word that what I tell you is going to remain between us,” he says first. “And that you’re not going to let any harm come to me or the other party involved.”

Porthos knows he’s making this sound much graver than it is, but he needs to go to whatever length he must in order to protect Aramis. Treville seems to understand that whatever this is won’t be so innocent as taking the last slice of bread from the pantry. Still, he looks like he’s willing to listen. He nods and gestures for Porthos to speak.

“I don’t want to be difficult, but I really need to hear it out loud,” Porthos says apologetically. Hell, he’d get it in writing if he could.

“I swear that this will remain between us,” Treville agrees.

“Good,” Porthos gets out in barely more than a grunt, now knowing he has to move forward on his own promise to tell him. “When you and De Foix came to recruit us and you wanted to take me without Aramis, there’s a reason that I didn’t want that to happen.”

“You’re extremely close,” Treville replies instantly. “I understand completely. He’s a skilled soldier, we just thought we already had enough talent when it comes to snipers, but he’s excelled at proving us wrong in that our existing talent does tend to pale when it comes to his ability.”

Porthos licks his lips, hoping Treville won’t step on every sentence or else he’s never going to get the truth out.

“Sir, Aramis and I have been involved in a sexual relationship for nearly four years now,” Porthos says, getting the words out before he can think too long about the panic starting to burn its way through his chest.

Treville has gone pale, a surprised look on his features. “Porthos…”

“I love him as a brother and as something more,” Porthos interrupts, intending to get through everything he means to say before he can be interrupted. 

“Porthos, you need to stop…”

“He’s the one I’ve chosen, Father, and I don’t care if it means you kick us both out of the Musketeers, I don’t care if you disown me, I don’t even care if you have us arrested…” Though he does care, but Porthos figures they’d be able to run away fairly quickly if that were to happen. “…it’s important that I’m honest with the people I love.”

There’s no reply from Treville this time, but that shocked look on his face has only gotten worse. Porthos starts to steel himself for whatever is coming, knowing that he’s opening himself up to it. Only, time passes and Treville says nothing and then even more time passes to the point that Porthos is starting to worry this reaction is going to be bad.

“What?” Porthos finally demands.

“You called me ‘Father’,” Treville says calmly, even though there seems to be an emotional storm brewing in his tone and his eyes. “And I really wish you hadn’t said what you did out loud,” he adds, a touch graver. “I’m not going to have the both of you arrested, but that’s the sort of thing I’m better off in the dark about.”

Porthos can’t help his hapless shrug. “It didn’t feel right carrying around that omission,” he admits, feeling a touch embarrassed for having blurted out ‘father’ without even realizing it. “It was a mistake, calling you that. I promise I won’t do it in the yard,” he insists, not wanting to get Treville into any kind of trouble. 

“Porthos, I don’t mind if you call me that behind closed doors,” Treville replies. “In fact, I know it’s a bit selfish of me, but it makes me feel like we’re making up for lost time.” He gives a rueful laugh, shaking his head. “I suppose this means I shouldn’t separate you and Aramis on missions? That does explain why he was so grumpy the last time I sent you on that month-long campaign without him.”

“That and he sort of thinks no one else can protect me as well as him,” Porthos concedes, though Athos has been making great strides in proving that otherwise.

“Go,” Treville dismisses him with a flick of his hand. “And for god’s sake, Porthos, I hope that’s the last of your shocking news. My old heart can only take so much,” he jokes wryly.

“Funny how your heart is never old when you’re throwing yourself into the fray,” Porthos notes in a deadpan, but he presses his hat to his head as he takes his leave, his heart racing madly as he realizes that the very worst of his secrets has now been laid bare to his father and he’s come out the other side intact.

Of course, he has Aramis to contend with, now.

And given the fact that Treville _accidentally_ nicks him twice with a sword in the next practice melee, there may be some fatherly protection still going on. Porthos is bent on one knee in between Aramis’ to tend to the wounds, trying not to let his amusement show as Aramis complains and curses in Spanish, staring at his cut thigh with despair.

“He did this on purpose,” Aramis insists. “I saw the glint in his eyes. Did he happen to find out I used his hat on the horse? Or perhaps this is about the girl I was flirting with at court…”

“Or maybe because he knows you’re sleeping with me,” Porthos mumbles under his breath.

Unfortunately, Aramis’ keen ears are just about on par with his keen eyes and it doesn’t pass him by. “I’m sorry, I just thought you implied that the Captain knows about our arrangement, but he couldn’t,” Aramis says, filled with sharp pleasantries, “because you would have told me prior to telling him. Correct?”

Porthos bandages the wound tightly, using Aramis’ surprised cry as his opportunity. “Or I took advantage of an opportunity and now he knows and neither you nor I have been banished, imprisoned, or killed,” he replies.

Aramis looks pointedly at his thigh.

“You’re mildly damaged,” Porthos huffs, given that it could be a lot worse. “He knows, Aramis, and while he may not be jumping for joy, he’s also accepting the fact. Slowly,” he concedes, because Treville hadn’t taken to it quite so easily and quickly as Porthos may have liked, but he’s on his way there.

Aramis looks like he wants to complain some more, but the fight bleeds out of him and he leans down to kiss Porthos on the lips. “If he’d have elected to hang me instead, I would have been very cross,” he says. “I like my neck the way it is.”

“I’d never let anything happen to you,” Porthos vows. “C’mon, lie back,” he insists. “I’ve got a magic kiss that’ll make this all better.”

Aramis waggles his eyebrows as he reclines, clearly eager for what’s about to happen next, given where the wound lies and Porthos’ own talents with his tongue and kissing it better. His bad mood seems to bleed away like magic and Porthos is all too happy to be able to play a part in that.

* * *

“Are you sure about this?”

Porthos sets another bottle of wine and chess set into one of the thick crates that had been procured for him by the King when Treville had announced his grand plan.

After decades of service and many of those as Captain of the Musketeers, Captain Treville would now look to retirement as a new adventure. Porthos had looked on him as both father and captain for almost six years now and it seemed a strange thing that he would be reporting to another man for his duty. He’d grown to love his father beyond all expected reckoning and reason and despite his successor being a dear friend of Porthos’, it’s been a strange set of weeks.

“I’m sure about the chess set, but you should open the wine,” Treville insists. “Go on. I’m not bothering to save it for anything. Retirement is as good an occasion as any.”

Porthos, along with many of the other soldiers, had been mainly surprised when Treville had elected to retire rather than serve until he gave his life on the battlefield. When Porthos had tentatively broached such a subject, Treville had looked at him with a cutting glare and said, “I have something to live for,” before leaving it at that.

Treville pours the wine and hands a cup to Porthos, gesturing for him to sit down. All of this is still so new and Porthos isn’t sure how he’s going to feel about coming into this office to meet with Athos rather than it being his personal space to share and to feel like a family with Treville. He knows that he’ll still get those things, only it will be in a Kingly estate donated by the royal family rather than at the garrison.

“You’re sure you don’t want a personal guard? Aramis keeps saying he’d look excellent in their clothing,” Porthos jokes.

“You’re going to stay here and you’re going to prove why you’re the very best of the lot,” Treville says calmly, having already heard this a dozen times.

They’ve argued about this topic, though not this exactly. Upon Treville’s first insistence of retirement, he had taken Porthos aside to tell him of his plans to recommend him to the King as the new captain, with De Foix’s support. Porthos had reacted terribly, awash with the guilt that he’d only be a captain because of his lineage and of the guilt of lost time. He had vehemently denied the position and had even threatened to leave the regiment, were it him chosen.

He hadn’t seen himself as fitting of the role and he couldn’t expect the men to look at him with the kind of respect they’d given Treville.

Aramis had been cross with him on Porthos’ stubborn insistence, but he’d known himself to be right. This is the better way. He only needs to keep serving king and country. He doesn’t need a title or an office or anything special for that. “And that,” Aramis had said heatedly, during a long period in which Aramis had been using chastity as punishment, “is why you should be Captain, you big-hearted, courageous, idiotic fool.”

Still, Porthos had been insistent that someone else be chosen.

Treville had appointed Athos, then, as his second choice. He’s yet to forgive Porthos entirely for denying the honour. “I’m surprised Aramis didn’t wear you down,” he notes, sipping at the wine with a blissful look on his face.

It’s definitely a wine that’s been earned. Treville has given his life and his body so many times over to the regiment and Porthos can only imagine a life that storied and distinguished.

“He got close a few times,” Porthos confesses. “Only, I know all his tricks by now. Yours, too,” he adds pointedly, given that Treville had sent him on enough miserable assignments in an effort to bring Porthos around to the task. “I like where I’m at. Put me as trainer of the new recruits or a deputy, but my skin …”

“Porthos,” Treville cuts him off. “You know I don’t like talking about that.”

“Sometimes, I have to,” Porthos replies quietly, staring at the red liquid sloshing in his cup. “I’ve been lucky to find support here, but if you were to make me a Captain, there’d always be an undercurrent there and I’d always doubt who truly had my back apart from Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan. I’d have their trust and loyalty, maybe, but I don’t know if they’d all respect me or just think I was there temporarily. Worse, what if someone worked out who you were to me. That’d be chaos.” He shrugs, staring into his cup of wine and knowing that the world isn’t fair and he doesn’t like it, but he has time to change it.

Besides that, he’s got people who love him and that’s about all Porthos really needs.

“Besides, maybe when Athos is ready to retire, then it’ll be my turn,” Porthos says, wanting to keep Treville’s spirits up. “Or maybe I’ll decide I want to become a layabout son who does nothing but leech off your charity,” he teases. “Me or Aramis.”

“The worst son-in-law without a marriage to make him so,” Treville laments melodramatically, which makes Porthos grin.

They would probably go on like this for another hour if not for Athos’ interruption, standing awkwardly in the door with several of his possessions in hand. “They told me you’d left for the day,” Athos notes evenly.

Porthos is quickly out of his chair, not wanting to detain Athos at all. “Nah, I was just going. I’ll leave the two of you to proper captaining business,” he says, draining the rest of the wine (because there’s no point in wasting good wine) before giving Athos a warm smile and a clap on the back. “Captain,” he says, to Athos. “Old Captain, in all senses of the word,” he adds cheerfully, to Treville.

“These are the miscreants you’re inheriting.”

“I know all too well.”

Porthos endures Athos’ wry smirk and Treville’s genuine smile as he leaves, weathering the uncomfortable feeling that told him change is on the way, whether he likes it or not.

He discovers, over the next few months, that it’s not all bad. For all that Athos can be tempestuous and moody, he’s a good and fair captain who doesn’t play favourites. Treville, while he’d been a great man, had a habit of doing that occasionally and had never seen fit to stop that. It’s also easy to earn Athos’ ear with a well placed bottle of wine and he keeps them in fitter shape with their rapiers than ever before.

What Porthos has come to miss, however, are the talks he and Treville shared, where he could discuss everything and anything. Aramis bears the brunt of most of that conversation, now, but it seems that it’s not only him missing it.

“You come by the Captain’s office less now,” Athos observes one day, when they’re cleaning up in the armory after a practice skirmish. “I suppose I’m disappointed. I thought you might feel inclined to transfer your confidences with Treville to your new captain.”

Porthos turns his back to hide the awkward expression that dominates his face, not immediately sure how he’s going to explain this. He’s been toying with telling Athos the truth for a while now. He’s proven himself capable of keeping his mouth shut, plus he doesn’t seem like he’d care that much to find out about this one of Porthos’ secrets (he’s pretty sure Athos already knows about him and Aramis and is deliberately in denial).

“I promise I’m not that awful to talk to. I thought you knew that,” Athos continues, shelving muskets cautiously.

Porthos settles onto a barrel to start polishing the sharp point of the bayonets, shrugging as he keeps his eye on the sharp end. “I mean, you’re one of my best friends,” he admits. “Only, Treville and I sort of had a special connection that I don’t really know that you could ever replicate.”

Athos raises his brow and Porthos can practically _hear_ the dry sarcasm.

“It’s not you,” Porthos cuts him off. “Athos, Treville is important to me. He’s all the family I’ve got.”

“He’s like a father to many of the younger Musketeers,” Athos concurs. “I can see how you’d feel that way.”

“Athos,” Porthos says, thinking that he’s going to have to cut straight to the point, “he _is_ my father.”

Right then and there, Porthos wishes he could go back in time and drag Aramis and d’Artagnan in to witness this conversation, because the shocked, speechless, and (frankly) dumbfounded look on Athos’ face is something he’ll never forget and he wishes that he’d had someone else there to witness such a wondrous thing. He only wishes he could see it over again, but he thinks asking Athos to open his mouth like he’s trying to catch a whole rodent in there might be pushing his luck.

“He’s your father,” Athos repeats, with a touch of suspicion.

“My mother died before he could make an honest woman out of her and he had a best friend who was an idiot and lost us,” Porthos says, his emphasis on ‘lost’ as bitter as he can make it. “We’ve been making it right ever since. Which is why we’ve had the talks and the confidences. I’d appreciate you not sharing this with everyone. Apart from you, only De Foix and Aramis know. I hope this isn’t going to change how you think of me.”

“It’s a touch of a shock,” Athos says after a long moment. “And yet, he has never treated you unfairly. Porthos, I believe you have fought harder than anyone else to be where you are. I’m only glad that your father has been able to share that with you.”

As if the weight has been released from his back, Porthos feels instantly lighter. He hadn’t known that the secret had been such a burden until he speaks about it, but he knows that he’s glad to have told Athos and he knows it’s been the right thing to do.

“If you do want to talk, that can be arranged, too,” Porthos promises as he finishes with the last of the guns. “I do miss having someone to vent to, especially when it’s Aramis who’s being frustrating.”

“Ah, so it’s not just me,” Athos deadpans, and Porthos is happy to let that slide only because he knows how much Athos cherishes the man’s friendship. “Go on,” he releases him. “Your duty is done for the day. And you have my silence,” he adds, with an important nod. 

Porthos reaches over to clasp Athos’ forearm to thank him for it, stepping out into the garrison and breathing in the crisp air, feeling like the world is filled with possibilities and wonder. He thinks he could stand here basking in his happiness much longer, if it weren’t for Aramis grabbing him by the hand and tugging him along.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ve got an hour before I’m to be on the road with d’Artagnan and you need to take the edge off. What were you and Athos discussing, anyway?”

“Nothing important,” Porthos replies, following Aramis and feeling as if the rest of his life is open to whatever he so chooses, with the support of the people he loves dearest.

It’s not a bad outlook, at all.


End file.
